W
by Flynn Roswell
Summary: The day is here. A war is coming, if they refuse to obey. A man is coming, and no one knows his name. He's sending them a message. The day has come, and when the day is over, the town will be his. But there is a chance. The parents will do anything to save their young, and the young will fight back. A fast-paced thriller that underlines dictatorship and what it means to fight back.


"Get off me!" he cried, pleading to be free. Matthew "Mark" (at least his friends or employers called him) Williams didn't anticipate on this surprising revelation. When the woman had screamed, the first thought that came into his head was what everyone thought: "Terrorist." It has been the general idea for more than a decade now. It has, and it seems to cement itself even further as our programs of protection seems to draw us back and now allow an attack to happen.

Mark was close to the cockpit, overhearing the pilots' conversation; they were discussing the miles it would take to get to their acquired destination. He assumed it was small-talk to pass the time. Maybe they were new together or one of them was a rookie and the other wasn't much of a teacher and refused as much contact with him as possible. Maybe, maybe not, but regardless it doesn't affect where are they going. At least, at the moment, it didn't.

When the woman screamed, Mark froze. He didn't know what to do. He closed his eyes and hoped it was nothing. Then more came from the back, and he had the sudden urge to open his eyes and look what was behind him. Curiosity has a way of killing the cat.

He was smacked across the face by something hard, and was knocked unconscious.

When he woke up, he saw six men who were dressed as if they were prepared for this situation. These men knew what they're doing, and yet seemed so nervous. They were armed with assault rifles, but he couldn't guess what type were they. They looked more like those guns on war video games.

He noticed that he had tied up from behind, seeing his new dress-up shoes now bruised and a little destroyed, not so much that they cannot be worn again, but not in his interest to put them back on if he took them off.

Mark was a professional, a businessman. This here…was absurd and…frightening.

He looked around and saw everyone else around sleeping. Had they been knocked out or slipped some kind of drug. He hoped so. He did—but wait? If they had did, then what about him? What made him separate from the others? Was it something they wanted from him? Was that it? He wasn't rich like Hollywood stars, but he still maintained the beautiful American dream: A great house, trophy wife, talented kids, etc., etc., the works. It was something he was happy for. He is rich in some ways. In simpler words, Mark is that rich—rich enough to own a mansion and maybe two jet skis.

"Is" may change to "Was" if he wasn't careful…or was it too late?

He felt chained up in those ropes. They felt too tight, almost like they cutting off the blood stream to his hands.

"_Get off me!"_ he muffled to say through his tie they used to keep him quiet.

One of the six was kind enough to pull it down for him to breathe. But when they did, what could have muffled out was him saying clearly "Get me off!" and Mark felt the sweat under clear off by the tie.

A man came up to him. He looked heavily guarded around what possibly could be body armor and whatever the army had supplied him with. These were thoughts that raced to his head when he saw this man walk up to him. He looked like a sergeant, maybe. But even then, it seemed like this man wasn't in the CIA or FBI. No, it seemed strange and horrifying.

The man walked closer, like the devil simply reaching out to grab your soul.

"You shouldn't talk," he said. His voice—deep, and simple, and yet it drew goose bumps in his arms, even when he was in a suit. "My friend, save your strength. You'll need it where we'll be going."

"What?" he said confused. The man talked like this was a more simple time before the execution of crashing a plane into a building, before presidential assassinations or attempted-assassinations.

"My friend, stand up and face me."

Two or three—Mark thought, he couldn't tell—picked him up, quickly, and untied him, too.

He stood up, as the man grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him towards the emergency exit.

"I've got a job for you," he said, his voice as calm as the lake would endure on that first spring morning.

A loud crash; maybe an act of thunder, he believed.

The plane was failing, and the man grabbed him with his two arms and yelled for the boys to come and open the door.

They did, and Mark felt the power of the atmosphere sucking what can be into the air. His hair, even how short it can be, was being pulled in. Each of them jumped off, one by one. He saw each of them heavily prepared for this, all in black, like in those spy movies. He felt this could be like one of them, or just a mere delusion before his immediate death.

Then he was jumped off with the man, still holding him in his arms.

They falling down, feeling the power of death as they get closer and closer to the ground. He couldn't open his eyes if he tried. The amount of air pushing in just wouldn't let him. (Plus he was afraid he could have gotten a bug in his eye, like when you don't wear a helmet on motorcycles.)

The man said, "Hold on good."

He did.

The man pulled a string (though seemed thicker than one, but not as thick as rope) and opened his parachute.

Mark looked down and saw a small town, multiple buildings, but they were more like houses in the suburbs. He wasn't thinking about how this was a town; he was thinking how high he was from certain death.

He looked up at the man, and said, "What—"

"Do you know what I want you to do for me?" he said, as calm as his voice is, almost as if he had forgotten that he was more high than the average person is now.

"What? What is it?" he asked, more scared now than ever. He sounded like he was screaming it, like the air didn't let him talk clearly. He wanted to get back home to his family.

"You know the name of that town?"

"No."

"The name is Elmore. I want to send them a message. Can you send it for me?"

"Sure. Sure. Anything you want. What's the message?"

"Oh, you'll do just fine," he said.

"What—?"

He let Mark go and watched him fall down.

He held tightly to his straps and began singing, _"London bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down… London bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down… London bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down…London bridge is falling…down…"_


End file.
